Now he tries to read Carl’s steps. In the kitchen the radio starts playing. A man sings of a red sun on Capri, a fisherman and the ocean. At one point he hears Carl say, “All very mysterious.” Then the front door falls shut.

He goes to join Edith in the kitchen. When she notices him she puts on an apron and bends over a pot: “You must be hungry. I can make you some eggs. Our hens have been busy.”

She wears the same dress she wore yesterday. It clings to her stomach; she seems to be sweating around her navel.

He can’t look away.

Edith is taller than Carl; he noticed it the night before. She must be five five. That means she’s taller than him too. She seems absorbed in watching the eggs, which make a very quiet thok sound when they knock together in the boiling water.

Now she finally turns toward him. She hesitates for a moment. Then she starts setting the table with great vigor. Plate, salt shaker, a basket of bread—and with a final elegant flourish she places an egg spoon next to the plate.

But there is something bashful in her movements nonetheless. A strange man in her kitchen. That’s what he is, and suddenly it’s clear to both of them.

“Carl was very happy to hear from you all of a sudden after the war. We were always happy to get your letters.”

“His letters meant a lot to me as well,” he said. “To have a family.” And he thinks of Carl’s constant words of encouragement. Which sometimes he could only smile at. But still: they were from his brother. He didn’t have another. He clung to those words, to the ragged cursive on smudged postwar paper with holes where Carl’s pen had punched through it.

“I’ll be in the laundry room if you need anything.”

He has a mouthful of egg and can only nod. He’s not very hungry; for his American self it’s only six o’clock in the morning. But he wants to do what’s expected of him.

After breakfast he looks up Dörsam’s address in his notebook. He sits down at the writing desk, grabs some letter paper, and writes:

Dear Herr Dörsam,

I’m in Neuss, staying with my brother. Where can we meet?

Respectfully yours,

Josef Klein (Joe)

He finds an envelope, then stamps, and puts Carl’s address as the return address. But then he folds the letter again and again and puts it in his pants pocket.

By laundry room Edith must have meant the bathroom downstairs. Because he can’t think of anything better to do, he goes to join her. She kneels by the tub, and when he clears his throat, she turns her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her face is sweaty. Dark strands of hair cling to her temples.